


Bella Ciao

by essexmermaid



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Episode Related, Episode: s02e03 Sway, F/M, Illegitimacy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Parental Fred Thursday, Past Character Death, Protective Fred Thursday, ThursDAD, Wartime Romance, wartime massacre referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essexmermaid/pseuds/essexmermaid
Summary: Fred Thursday keeps an awful secret and Morse is jealous. Will Morse overcome his own reluctance to support Thursday in this crisis?
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Fred Thursday, Luisa Armstrong/Fred Thursday
Comments: 22
Kudos: 7





	1. Bella Ciao

It was an airmail letter, addressed to Detective Chief Inspector F. Thursday, that bore the news. The flimsy blue envelope was marked “Personal and Confidential” which of course attracted Morse’s immediate interest. He turned it over in his hands curiously. The return address on the back was from Italy, Morse noted, although the name was unfamiliar. It also had a handwritten note on the front, underlined twice, insisting that it was urgent. Holding the letter thoughtfully in one hand and tapping it rhythmically in his other palm, Morse delivered it to Thursday in his office.

“Just arrived, Sir,” said Morse, offering the letter to his governor.  
Thursday looked up sharply.  
“What’s this then?” he asked.  
“From Italy, Sir.”  
“Well give it here,” snapped Thursday, ruffled by the prompt appearance of a letter he’d been expecting. He all but snatched it out of Morse’s hand then turned it over to read both front and back before opening it, handling it warily.

Morse, eagerly waiting to hear the contents read out, shuffled from foot to foot, fingers fluttering in anticipation of getting his hands on the letter himself. Obviously Thursday had been expecting the letter and seemed anxious to find out what it contained. But as he read the missive, Thursday’s honest face fell. Watching him closely, Morse realised the letter held bad news. Or more bad news, he should say, following the devastation Thursday had felt last month at Mrs. Armstrong’s death.

Morse was shocked to see the colour drain from the Old Man’s face as he took in the words, leaving him ashen and silent. It must have been quite a blow, whatever he’d read. Worried, Morse leaned in towards him.

“Sir?” he asked quietly. “Everything all right, Sir?”

Dazed, Thursday tore his gaze away from the letter and blinked vaguely at Morse. He looked confused, shattered even, and shook his head slowly as if to clear his thoughts. The flimsy airmail paper in his hand trembled. Slowly Thursday raised one hand to his brow, the other still clutching the offending letter, and leant forward onto his elbow, his hand shielding his eyes.

“Christ Almighty!” slurred Thursday in a low whisper. “Dear God, what have I done?”

His anguish was all too clear, his big frame slumped at his desk, hand over his eyes, the letter crumpled in his fist.

“Sir?” persisted his concerned bagman.

Thursday leaned back slowly in his chair and blinked again at Morse who could see he had tears in his eyes. Thursday ran the back of his hand across his mouth, back and forth, trying to gather the strength to speak. It proved too much for him. 

Instead Thursday leaned down to open his bottom drawer and pulled out a half empty bottle of scotch and a tumbler. Pouring himself a large measure, he tossed it down in one gulp. Morse realised the severity of the situation by the fact that his governor was too distracted to offer him a drink as he usually did. Morse waited impatiently for the mysterious letter to be explained.

Thursday poured himself another stiff drink, sipping it slowly this time as he laid the creased papers on his desk and smoothed them carefully with his hand. 

“What is it, Sir? Can I get you anything?” asked Morse, deeply worried by his senior officer’s behaviour. He’d obviously had a nasty shock.

Thursday shook his head in answer. He folded up the letter carefully, replaced it in its envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“No. You can’t. Now clear off,” he croaked.

Startled at the blunt command, Morse jerked back and spun out of Thursday’s office, hurrying back to his own desk. 

Over the following hour, Morse guarded Thursday’s door, deflecting all attempts by his colleagues to talk to their DCI, and diverting his phone calls to answer them himself. He made sure that Thursday was left alone, sitting quietly in his office. Morse could see him sitting morosely at his desk, staring into space, entirely lost in his own thoughts. 

Finally Thursday picked up his desk phone and placed a call. It must have been an international call, Morse decided, trying to listen in through the office partition, as it was placed by the switchboard operator. When, after a long wait, the connection was made, Thursday spoke loudly in Italian which Morse could not understand. A further wait, presumably as someone else was called to the phone at their end, and another flurry of Italian conversation. Thursday then switched to English and dropped his voice to a level Morse could no longer catch. Frustrated, Morse could only speculate on what could be in the letter to trigger an urgent international telephone call and so much consternation.

After the telephone call ended Thursday looked grim, unmoving and silent at his desk. Morse could see the man was deeply troubled by the news from Italy and was taking a long time to absorb it. He wondered what could have shaken him so badly, what fresh care to add to the pile of concerns that Thursday carried so bravely. Morse could only speculate that Thursday had attempted to contact Mrs. Armstrong’s family in Italy and had uncovered yet more upsetting information.

Eventually Thursday stirred himself to put on his coat and hat. At his office door he announced he wasn’t feeling too good and was off home early.

Thursday looked ghastly, a little unsteady on his feet, but turned down the offer of a lift insisting that he would walk home by himself. Morse nodded without firing at him the many questions he had about this strange Italian conversation.

As Morse watched his broad back heading for the exit, he wondered what on earth the letter could have contained to shake to his very foundations so steady a character. He knew that Thursday was still reeling from the unexpected rediscovery of his wartime lover, Mrs. Armstrong, and the shock of her recent, pitiful suicide.

Morse pondered over what he knew already. He had seen for himself that Thursday had been devastated when he learned of Mrs. Armstrong’s death. Morse had slipped into the congregation at her funeral and watched his sorrowful goodbyes. He had noted that Thursday, as an old friend, had attended her funeral in a personal capacity rather than in his role as a police detective. Dressed soberly all in black, Thursday had hugged his wife to his side. Bravely Mrs. Thursday had accompanied him to the funeral, arm linked through his, giving him her support at that dreadful time. 

Morse had, as usual, watched coldly from the sidelines. He had seen how Thursday stopped at the graveside to plant a small wooden cross in the cold earth. He had heard Thursday whisper a final goodbye to the dead woman he’d once loved. After Thursday left, Morse had slipped quietly to the grave to read Thursday’s last message to Luisa, handwritten on the little cross.

“Bella Ciao”.

It was clear to Morse that the Inspector had taken Luisa’s loss to heart and he had got in touch with her family or friends in Italy. Morse could also see that Thursday had just been dealt another mysterious and devastating blow, but what could it be?


	2. Died of Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred Thursday is still reeling from the death of his wartime sweetheart, Luisa Armstrong. He is still traumatised about losing her and blames himself for her death.
> 
> Follow on from Season 2 “Sway”

So much had happened last month after Fred Thursday had unexpectedly come across his old flame Luisa, or Mrs. Armstrong as she was now, in Oxford. At first it had floored him to stumble across her during a case but then he sought her out to a try to relive old times with her. She had been his Italian lover for a few short weeks long ago, when she’d been the brightest, sweetest spark of life in the whole duration of the rotten war. 

He’d thought her dead, killed in the war, and it shocked him to his bones to find out that she had survived somehow. He regretted not knowing she was alive, not going back to find her, regretted not spending all those intervening years with her, regretted having grown old without her.

Luisa had killed herself shortly after meeting him again and Thursday was broken hearted that his chance reappearance in her life might have pushed her into despair. 

He blamed himself in part for her death even though she’d claimed in her suicide note that she didn’t want to live alone without her husband any more. Knowing that she had been inconsolably lonely since the death of her beloved husband gave him little relief from his relentless self recrimination.

But Luisa had left another note, addressed personally to Fred. She’d explained to him alone her wretched part in the wartime massacre of her own people. She could no longer bear the burden of guilt she felt, having betrayed her own friends in desperation. She’d begged him not to blame himself for her death as she feared he would, knowing him as she did. Luisa wanted him to remember the girl she had been when they were young, and foolish, and in love.

Thankfully Morse had pocketed this intimate note before anyone knew of its existence. It was addressed to Thursday so Morse handed it to him quietly allowing him to read it in private. Morse had guessed at something of the old relationship between Mrs. Armstrong and his governor, and he had wanted to spare Thursday any further public grief following her death.

“Died of wounds” Thursday had surmised after reading her note.

He took a gulp of beer and cleared his throat, his voice choked with emotion.

“Sometimes a bullet wound, a piece of shrapnel left over from the war. Didn’t kill you at the time but did for you later on,” he continued, seeing that Morse did not understand the term. 

“Might be months before it caught up with you. Or in this case, years.”

Thursday’s words stuck in his throat. He was broken hearted at having found her alive after so many years apart, only to lose her again so horribly. It only made her loss worse knowing what had caught up with Luisa. The bitter shame she had felt all through those post war years had finally been too much to bear. Knowing the reason didn’t make her loss any easier for Fred to accept.

“Every life holds one great love. One name to hold onto at the end. One face to take into the dark” Luisa had written. Thursday couldn’t bear to think of what they could have been to one another had she lived.

He took another gulp of beer then stood up and left abruptly, leaving the note for Morse to read.

Studying it carefully Morse had been shocked to learn that ‘Fredo’, as she called him, had been more than just a colleague to Luisa back in the war years. Morse had guessed as much seeing Thurday’s stunned reaction when he met her again recently and by Mrs. Armstrong’s own guarded testament when Morse went to interview her. The note spelled out in black and white that during the war they had been lovers. 

Morse had squirmed with embarrassment to know that he had inadvertently stumbled on Thursday’s most private secret, a most unlikely love affair conducted long ago by this seemingly unromantic old copper. He felt justified that he had hidden the private note until he had been able to hand it directly to Thursday, and had resolved to keep it secret. Morse had burned Luisa’s note but continued to wonder at its contents.

Luisa had begged Fred to forgive her, to understand why she had done what she had done, to remember the girl she once was.

Morse had thought last month that Mrs. Armstrong’s death, the funeral and the inquest had all brought closure to the old love affair. But it seemed now that Luisa’s posthumous note to Fred had opened up a whole new world of pain for him. Even though it was distressing him, Morse could see that Thursday was anxious to pursue these Italian enquiries far beyond his official remit. This was personal, Morse realised, and Thursday was determined to keep chasing down this new mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to keep reminding you about Luisa’s suicide but Fred’s not over it


	3. The One You Can’t Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred Thursday seeks an explanation after the death of Luisa Armstrong and runs into her great pal Charlie Highbank

After reading Luisa’s note last month, Thursday had felt gutted. He wanted desperately to find out more about her rather than just let her memory slip away so pathetically. And so he took the keys to her front door from the police exhibits box and let himself into Luisa’s flat. He was planning to spend a quiet hour going through her papers to try to ease his mind over her recent death which haunted him every waking moment.

To his surprise, he heard a shrill, angry voice calling out, “I’ve told you, there’s another two weeks paid on the rent. I’ve got until the end of the month!”.

Taken aback, he growled, “Detective Chief Inspector Thursday! Who’s there?” 

A sheepish face appeared in the hallway. Charlie, the window dresser and gentleman’s outfitter from Burridges, stepped forward somewhat flustered. He was Luisa’s great pal from the department store where they had both worked and he had been her closest friend.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Inspector. I thought it was the landlord again. He’s no right to clear this place out yet. I know Luisa had paid the rent up to the end of the month.” Charlie was clearly annoyed, with good reason it seemed. Thursday was mildly amused at the little man’s outrage.

Having previously met the Inspector at the store during the murder enquiries, and again at Luisa’s funeral and inquest, Charlie welcomed a friendly face and beckoned him into the living room. Thursday followed without giving any explanation of what he was doing there.

“Cup of tea?” enquired Charlie to settle his nerves. As the tea was poured, Thursday looked around. There were several heaps of Luisa’s meagre possessions, some packing boxes and the tea service laid out on the table. Charlie saw Thursday’s puzzlement at the table set for two.

“Oh, I know it’s fanciful. I just wanted one last cuppa before I pack everything up,” admitted Charlie. 

“That’s what you’re doing here?” deduced Thursday. “Packing?”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want anyone else going through her things. And I asked Mr. Burridge, Alan,” he emphasised, “if he thought it would be alright first and he said seeing as she had given me her spare key I might as well before the landlord took possession and threw the lot out.”

As Charlie chattered on nervously, Thursday took stock. The dapper little fellow was doing his dearest Luisa one last kind turn by handling and packing up her few belongings with dignity.

“That pile’s for the charity store,” his companion pointed to a stack of neatly folded clothes, “and that’s for sale at the Sunday market, proceeds to the Salvation Army. Her financial affairs are all in order so no need to worry on that account. And there’s a few papers and a bit of jewellery, not worth much, that I was going to send to her mother.”

“Her mother!” spluttered Thursday, spitting out a mouthful of tea.

“Yes, her mother,” Charlie pulled a face, a parody of surprise.

As he wiped himself down with his clean handkerchief, Thursday tried to compose himself.

“Her mother,” explained Thursday. “Knew her in the war. Used to call her Mama Maria. Never thought the old girl’d still be alive.” 

Thursday had fond memories of Luisa’s mother during the war in Italy. Mama Maria was a tiny woman with immense energy, most of it spent harassing the occupying soldiers and supporting the resistance fighters. She’d had a remote farm up in the hills where he’d spent time hiding out with the other partisans and where he’d first met Luisa. 

Thursday had said enough for now, unwilling even after all these years to blurt out the truth of his role in occupied Italy. As an English soldier supporting the Italian resistance fighters, he could have been shot as a spy if he had been captured. Luisa, her mother, family and friends had protected him and his colleagues with their very lives.

“She’s still alive and well so far as I know although they weren’t close. Luisa used to write at Christmas and she told me she’d send money home sometimes though God knows she had little enough to spare, what with the rent and living expenses, and what’s left she wanted donated to charity, but she was fond of her mother, owed her some sort of debt I think, though she never had any intentions of going back to Italy, said her home was here now…”

As Charlie drew breath, Thursday jumped in.

“Have you an address?” he wondered. “Has anyone written to her mother?”

Charlie leafed through the small pile of papers. 

“Here it is,” he said, picking out an envelope. “This one’s from her mother. I didn’t have the heart to write and tell her Inspector Thursday. Perhaps…” he pleaded, holding out the letter to Thursday.

“I’ll write to her. Seeing’s I used to know her. And it’s Fred,” he said kindly, warming to this considerate friend.

Charlie smiled sadly. He dabbed at the corner of his eye with a flamboyant handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. Absently he picked up the empty teacup.

“I love this teaset, it reminds of our cozy chats together,” he said, handling the delicate china tenderly.

“Why don’t you take the tea service as a memento? She’d have liked you to have it, I’m sure.”

Charlie nodded, pleased with the compliment.

“Thankyou, Fred,” he sniffed. “I wanted to do this one last thing for her. I miss her terribly, my Luisa.”

They sat in silence a while. Fred too missed his Luisa, the sweet young girl he’d once known so many years ago. 

“But of course she was your Luisa too, wasn’t she?” Charlie reminded him shyly, searching Fred’s face for a response.

When Thursday didn’t reply, Charlie waved a hand to dismiss his reticence and continued.

“She told me, only a little mind, about you and her all those years ago. Quite the love story,” teased Charlie, suddenly feeling comfortable and familiar with this bluff copper.

Fred sighed. It was a relief to talk a little about Luisa at last and to have a sympathetic ear. As they drank their tea, Fred spoke briefly about those golden days of his long lost youth and meeting Luisa as a young girl. He did not mention anything about her role in the resistance movement nor his own part in “hush, hush” activities behind enemy lines. He talked movingly about the shock of seeing her again in Oxford, things that he could not discuss with anyone else, and especially his deepest regret at hastening her death.

“Oh, no!” Charlie insisted. “She was ready to go. She never got over the death of her husband. She told me over and over she was tired of it all, but I didn’t think she’d ever…” he fluttered his hands, too distressed to go on. 

“I never meant to push her over the edge,” groaned Fred.

“You didn’t, bless you, you didn’t,” protested his new friend. “Luisa told me how happy she was to see you again. She was still a little in love with you, you know.”

“”Remember the girl you loved” she told me,” quoted Fred from Luisa’s note to him. “I always did. I’ve never forgotten her, you see.”

Charlie reached across the table and caught hold of Fred’s hand. 

“It’s not the one you never met, it’s always the one you can’t forget,” he sighed melodramatically. “Do as she said,” urged Charlie. “Remember how she was back then, not what she was in later years.”

Fred smiled at him fondly. He took some comfort from those kind words. Knowing that Charlie had been such close pals with Luisa, he was persuaded that Charlie would keep this conversation to himself. 

He rose from the table and thanked Charlie for the tea. 

Deliberately, Fred picked up a pretty ashtray that he’d seen when he’d visited Luisa late one evening. Back then, it had held several cigarette stubs and he’d commented on a half empty cigarette packet beside it. At the time Luisa had dismissed it lightly as a bad habit of hers but had cleared the cigarettes from the table in a hurry.

“Did she smoke?” Fred asked Charlie, fishing for clues.

“Oh no, never!” Charlie was adamant. “Couldn’t stand the smell of smoke on her clothes, you see, never allowed anyone to smoke indoors.” Charlie bit off his words as he fell in with Thursday’s line of enquiry. “Oh,” he said abruptly.

Thursday had seen the cigarettes himself. Luisa had been embarrassed that he’d noted them, an unusual brand not smoked by many people. And now Charlie had confirmed that it was not Luisa who’d smoked them. Thursday knew damn well who had been smoking in her flat and he hated the very thought of it.

“Better let you get on,” Fred indicated around the flat, a dull resentment rising in him.

“Don’t be angry with her, Fred,” urged Charlie, holding out his hand for Fred to shake. “It’s not what you think. She was lonely, a little desperate for company. It was all over before it started she told me. And then you came along. She was so happy to see you again, you must believe me.”

Fred nodded, wanting desperately to accept this explanation. 

Fred turned to leave, hiding the disappointment he felt. Charlie saw him to the door.

He would be finished here by tomorrow, Charlie suggested, and would leave the flat empty of Luisa’s things. Anything of value, like the papers and what little jewellery she had, they agreed he’d parcel up and leave with Fred at the police station, ready to send on to Luisa’s mother.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Charlie urged his new friend. “And if there’s anything I can do…”

“You’ve done plenty,” replied Fred gently. “For her. And for me.”

Fred left the flat with plenty to dwell on. Charlie had reassured him that his part in Luisa’s death was not as terrible as he’d feared, that she had longed for peace of mind well before meeting Fred again. And best of all, he had her own testimony from Charlie that Luisa had still loved him, just as he had never forgotten her. 

“Remember the girl you loved,” she’d written to him.

And he would, keeping her safe in his heart forever.


	4. Yours, Fredo

Finding out that Luisa still had family in Italy, Thursday felt that the least he could do was to write in person to her family to break the awful news of her death. It would be a formal letter from him as a senior police officer offering all the help that officialdom could provide to a grieving family. Thursday was determined to handle this himself since he remembered her mother from the war years and knowing him might give her some comfort at this terrible time.

The coroner’s report had stated that Mrs. Armstrong had in all probability taken her own life. Speculation, and Luisa’s own depressed state of mind, suggested that the anniversary of her dear departed husband had been too much for her to bear. That much was true. But Luisa had also written to Fred to explain that she could no longer face her shame at her role in betraying her partisan colleagues during the war. Fred understood even if he could not forgive her for laying down her life rather than seeking help.

Only Thursday knew the real reason why she had killed herself. Only him and of course Morse who had also read Luisa’s note. Burdened with his guilt at reminding her of her wartime shame, and of being unable to help her through her darkest hours, Thursday tried his best to lighten the blow to her family.

———————————————————————————————————  
| Cowley Police Station  
| Cowley Road  
| Oxford  
| England  
|  
|  
| Dear Mrs. Minichiello  
|  
| I am writing to you in my role as Detective Chief Inspector of the Oxford Police Constabulary in  
| England.  
|  
| It is with great regret that I have to inform you of the sudden death of your daughter Mrs. Luisa  
| Armstrong. She died in the early hours of 27th of this month at her home in Oxford.  
|  
| I will forward to you the official copy of the coroner’s report but in brief I have to tell you that it  
| appears that she took her own life while the balance of her mind was disturbed.  
|  
| Mrs. Armstrong left some papers and a few possessions which I will send to you. The bulk of her | effects have been left, in accordance with her wishes, to the Salvation Army.  
|  
| If there is anything I can do for you here in Oxford please do not hesitate to contact me at the  
| above address.  
|  
| Yours sincerely  
|  
| F.A.Thursday  
|  
| Detective Chief Inspector Fred Thursday  
| Cowley Police Station  
|  
——————————————————————————————————

The official letter on headed paper to Mrs. Armstrong’s bereaved mother contained the bare minimum. Thursday hurried to get it typed up, copies taken for the files and posted by first class airmail to get to Italy as soon as possible. 

He knew the dreadful news would devastate her family so he tried in his own kind way to soften the blow by adding a hastily handwritten postscript that would not be recorded on file.

————————————  
Mama Maria  
You may remember me from the war as Fredo, Captain Giovedi? I met Luisa here in Oxford only recently. I was delighted to see her again as I thought she’d died during the war. You can imagine my sorrow on losing her for a second time. I am so very sorry for your loss.  
Yours, Fredo  
——————————

Thursday rushed the letter off to the post office himself, making sure it was in the next international post to Italy.

It had hit him hard, rediscovering her after so many years of believing her to be dead, only to have her so cruelly snatched away again. The whole sorry business had worn him out. What a waste of the poor woman’s life. What a lost opportunity for the two of them to have relived a few of their happier memories from their love affair in their youth. Instead, Thursday felt old, tired and abandoned by the one woman who could have understood his yearning for those long ago days.

She had chided him for believing they could once again be something to one another. It was too late, years and years too late for that. She had laughed gently at the notion that he could look after her, he a married man and she an inconvenient reminder of how he broke his marriage vows as a young man. Perhaps conceded Thursday, she’d been more clear sighted then he had been. While he’d dreamed of possibilities between them, Luisa had been more realistic and asked him not to come back that last time he’d visited her. She had decided there was no future for them together as chaste and platonic friends. 

In a way it was flattering; she knew they couldn’t be just friends because they were both still a little in love. Their shared memories of carefree love and adventure had only stirred up a longing for more of the same. But that was impossible. The best he could do now was to hold onto those precious memories and cherish the time they’d once had together.

Fred sent off the letter in good faith, wanting only to help her grieving family. He had no way of knowing that their reply would knock him sideways, throwing all his memories and thoughts of Luisa into utter confusion. He would face a terrible choice of what to do about their most unexpected revelation.


	5. A Blessing In Disguise

The day after the airmail letter from Italy had arrived, Morse drove to pick up Thursday at the usual time in the morning. He was met at their front door by a haggard looking Inspector and an equally weary looking Mrs. Thursday. He smiled briefly and ducked his head at them both, hanging back awkwardly when they didn’t invite him in.

Shyly Morse watched as Mrs. Thursday tenderly patted her husband’s chest as if to reassure both herself and him, then ran her hands across his lapels as she looked up into his worried face. He pulled her close for a brief, intense kiss, and muttered some words of comfort to her before turning towards the car. Neither of them appeared to have taken any notice of Morse, who scuttled back to the Jag.

Thursday sat through car journey to the station in silence, Morse burning with curiosity to find out what was going on whilst Thursday stared straight ahead, sighing uncomfortably.

At the station, Thursday peeled off unexpectedly and without explanation, heading straightaway for Mr. Bright’s office. Morse trundled off to his desk, aware that Thursday appeared to be under terrific strain since reading yesterday’s unwelcome news in his letter from Italy but irritated that he had not yet been trusted to share Thursday’s secret.

———

In Mr. Bright’s office, Thursday sat facing his boss across the desk.

After an awkward discussion in which Thursday had revealed the contents of the letter to his friend, he had tried to explain what he intended to do about it. He did need authority from the Chief Superintendent for his next course of action but also asked for personal advice from his long serving colleague.

Bright seemed in agreement with his old friend.

“Well, quite! You must do as you see fit, Fred,” agreed Bright cautiously. “If you think it will do any good then by all means go yourself.”

“Yessir, thankyou Sir,” replied Thursday. “Shouldn’t take more than four or five days, there and back, counting the weekend.”

“No rush, no rush. Things are mercifully quiet at the moment. Take your time, Fred. It’ll put your mind at rest, I shouldn’t wonder, one way or the other.”

Fred nodded. Both were silent for a while.

“And it’s a good idea to take Morse with you,” Bright added, straining for a more optimistic tone of voice.

“Yessir, I’ll start making the arrangements once I’ve spoken to him.”

“Take very good care of yourself, Fred. It’s been an awful shock, I can see, but you’ll do the right thing. Eh?” Bright tilted his head encouragingly.

“As you say, Reginald,” nodded Thursday. Bright’s kind words had at last raised a weary smile.

Slowly Thursday got to his feet. He watched as Bright came round the desk to him, hand outstretched. He took the little man’s man in his own much larger paw and they shook hands solemnly, Bright laying his free hand on top of both of theirs.

“You never know, Fred. Who’d have thought, after all these years? This could be a blessing in disguise, eh?” Bright mused in wonder.

“Yessir, thankyou Sir, ah, Reginald. That’s very kind of you to say so.”

Thursday left Bright’s office much encouraged. He returned to sweep back into his own office, beckoning Morse in with him.

It was only yesterday that Thursday had received the letter from Italy and followed it up immediately with an international phone call. Morse didn’t know the contents of either the letter or the call but was itching to ask his governor. Instead he kept quiet, figuring that Thursday was about to tell him all about it. Morse followed Thursday into his office fully expecting an explanation of these Italian communications. He was cocky enough to believe that Thursday would naturally take him into his confidence.

“Morse,” Thursday launched in with no explanation. “I’m going to Italy to follow this up.” He tapped his chest where Morse assumed the airmail letter was safely tucked.

“Oh! When?” was all Morse could reply.

“As soon as,” replied his governor urgently. “Mr. Bright’s given his permission and I’ll see about travel arrangements this morning. You’re to come too, if you’ll join me?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“What’s going on? Why the sudden need to go to Italy?” he queried.

“I can’t tell you just yet, but it’s important, Morse,” Thursday emphasised in a voice that accepted no nonsense. “And urgent. Now are you coming with me or not?”

Morse was rather shocked that Thursday was not yet ready to share all with him, having convinced himself that Thursday desperately needed him as a confidant. He baulked at the assumption that he would just trot along on this mission, without any explanation.

“I don’t see why you have to go there yourself,” he argued. “And why do you want me to go too? What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“Look, Morse, lets just say it’s important to me and you’d be doing me a favour. I can’t say more than that right now, not until I know more myself.”

But Morse was working himself up into an argumentative mood.

“If there’s a case to answer then let me hear it. Otherwise I’d rather not get caught up in some wild goose chase, thankyou very much!” he responded tartly, taking offence where none was intended and seating himself firmly on his high horse.

Thursday sighed, impatient and exasperated with Morse’s reticence. 

“Look, lad,” he tried again, “I have to go. I have my reasons. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

Thursday left the offer to hang in the air, a clear appeal for help from a hard man who always relied on his own ability to sort things out, and never, ever asked for favours. Morse dithered. He wanted time to process this sudden decision to dash off abroad, to puzzle out why the trip was necessary. He didn’t like being kept in the dark and in his own confusion failed to see how much his support would mean to his boss. 

“I can’t just take your word for something when I don’t know what’s this is all about!” huffed Morse which irritated Thursday immensely.

“Oh can’t you now?” Thursday growled, heavy with irony. Time was, Morse had hung on his every word. But over time there had been too many ruptures and misunderstandings between them. 

Morse shrugged arrogantly, as if he knew best.

“Well go on then, get out, I’ve got some calls to make,” snapped Thursday, waving him out of the office. 

Morse slunk out, hurt at being dismissed. He was itching to know the reason behind this Italian trip but his pride had been wounded. Morse could be a prickly bugger at times and this was one of them. Despite Thursday’s sense of urgency, Morse was unwilling to help him, putting his own hurt pride before the needs of his friend.


	6. Morse’s Loyalty Is Questioned

Before the morning was out, Thursday had more or less cleared his desk and assigned any new cases for the coming week to his sergeants, excepting Morse. He was clearly intending to travel to Italy for several days. 

At lunchtime Thursday strode from the office with Morse shadowing him from a distance, eager to find out what he was up to but careful to stay out of sight. Thursday spent time in the travel agents then had a long meeting at the bank. Morse deduced that he intended to travel abroad imminently and hurried back to the station before Thursday spotted him on his tail.

Morse sulked at his desk, intrigued that Thursday was afire to get to Italy, but crushed that he wouldn’t discuss the details with him. He was more worried that Thursday would withhold something important from him rather than being concerned about Thursday’s state of mind. It didn’t occur to Morse that Thursday might not be able to manage the situation without his help and saw no reason to offer it unless Thursday came clean. Morse was irritated and being deliberately difficult rather than trying to help his senior officer through what was becoming a personal crisis for Thursday.

It was not so long ago that Morse had looked up to his governor in all things, the wisdom of the years that Thursday shared with his bagman was an invaluable help to the young Constable’s policing prospects even if it had smacked of favouritism. And the kindness that Thursday showed him, enfolding him gradually into his own steady home life, had given Morse an insight into what he might dare to hope for himself, a happy, loving marriage and a family of his own to care for. He’d trusted Thursday to do the best he could in every situation and followed his lead unquestioningly.

Yet recently Morse had seen that good man stumble and fall, led on by wicked colleagues. And he’d watched aghast as Thursday’s family disintegrated around him. Morse also knew what strength and humility it had taken for Thursday to admit he had been wrong, to try to make amends and put his life back in order. It had nearly broken him, but Thursday had pulled himself back onto the straight and narrow, made his peace at last with his disenchanted wife and settled back into a steady, predictable pace of life.

Knowing now that Thursday was not infallible, knowing he had flaws like any other man despite his heroic efforts to overcome them, Morse was reluctant to blindly follow his mentor’s lead as he might well have done in days gone by. Morse needed to know more before he could trust Thursday’s judgement again.

When Thursday came back to the station he headed straight for his office without looking twice at Morse. 

After a short phone call, Thursday stuck his head out of his office. “Mr. Bright wants to see you, Morse. Right away.” 

Morse was surprised. The Chief Superintendent had obviously phoned Thursday just now, even though he’d already spent some time with Bright early that same morning. 

Morse slouched off to see Mr. Bright, smoothing down his creased jacket as he did so.

“Come in!” called Bright expectantly. “Ah, Morse! Just the fellow.”

“Sir,” mumbled Morse, reluctant to be put at ease by Bright’s welcoming manner.

“Sit down, Morse, sit down,” Bright continued amiably. 

Morse slid into a chair opposite the desk.

“I understand you have been asked to accompany Inspector Thursday on his forthcoming trip to Italy,” Bright came straight to the point, brusque as usual. “He’s asked for you specifically but is not sure of your support in this matter.”

“He won’t tell me what it’s about,” Morse shrugged, surprised that Thursday had taken their disagreement to their superior. It must mean a lot to Thursday to have escalated this to Mr. Bright.

Bright continued smoothly, trying to persuade Morse without resorting to a direct order. Fred had appealed to his friend to talk some sense into Morse. It was clear to Bright that Fred had neither the time nor the patience to sweet talk Morse into coming with him to Italy, but desperately wanted Morse at his side. Bright had offered to talk to Morse on his behalf, knowing how vital the trip was to Thursday.

“It’s a personal matter related to this business with Mrs. Armstrong. I can’t say more then that right now and I’m sure Inspector Thursday will fill you in just as soon as he is able.”

“So this is not official police business?” queried Morse petulantly.

“Good heavens, no!”

“So I don’t have to go then, do I, Sir?” countered Morse impertinently.

“Well,” drawled Bright, annoyed at Morse’s lack of sympathy. “You’d be doing him a very great service in accompanying him on this trip. You can take a few days paid leave, no need to draw on your holidays, and we’ll arrange for someone to cover for you while you’re gone. All expenses will be provided, you won’t be out of pocket, Morse.”

“But I don’t know why I have to go at all!” persisted Morse.

“Good heavens, man!” exclaimed his Chief Superintendent. “That’s for him to say, at a time of his own choosing. And if you’re any sort of friend to him then you’d take him at his word that this is important and…”. Bright pulled himself up, knowing this was no way to get through to a prickly Morse. He tried a different approach.

“Look, Morse. It’s important to him that you join him on this trip. He told me he’d asked for your help but you appeared, ah, shall we say less than enthusiastic? That’s why he’s asked me to have a word with you,” explained Bright with careful emphasis. “If you value his friendship, Morse, then please, go with him.”

He ground to a halt, disappointed that Morse could not put friendship before his own stubborness in having to know everything before making a decision.

Morse, tight lipped, made no reply.

Bright tried one last shot, a low blow but one that might just work.

“Inspector Thursday has put himself out for you, many, many times over the years. Never stopped to ask the whys and wherefores. Don’t you think he deserves your loyalty just this once?” Bright suggested slyly.

Morse huffed. The blow had hit home. Thursday had always been there for him, through thick and thin, often putting himself in danger to protect his protégé. Why, only recently, Thursday had come haring out to Venice to save Morse’s very life. 

Morse shuffled uncomfortably, weighing Thursday’s request against his own dislike of this secrecy.

Finally shamed into accepting the situation, Morse muttered, “Very well then, I’ll go.”

Bright smiled, pleased with this outcome.

“Good man, Morse! I take it you’ll let the Inspector know. He was hoping you’d see things his way.”

But, as Morse reflected while walking back to his desk, he really didn’t see it at all. What was so important in the airmail letter that lit a fire under the Inspector? And what good would it do to drag Morse along with him if Thursday wasn’t willing to tell him what the trip was for? 

It was too much of a mystery for Morse’s liking. Too much important information withheld to allow Morse to feel comfortable. Too much taken on trust, he thought. But after all, if he couldn’t trust his long suffering governor Fred Thursday then who, in this wide world, could he trust?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve almost finished writing this but the chapters are jumping around on me a bit so now it will be 12 chapters (I think!)


	7. I Did Her Wrong

Morse and Thursday left for Italy the very next day. First a train to London Victoria, then the boat train and an overnight sleeper through to Rome where they would catch their connection the next morning to their final destination.

Once they were settled onto the sleeper with many hours ahead of them before the next change of trains, Thursday started to explain himself. He revealed to Morse that he’d written to Mrs. Armstrong’s mother in Italy to inform her of her daughter’s death. Thursday explained that he had known Mrs. Armstong’s mother, affectionately known as Mama Maria, from his time in Italy during the war. And her reply to his letter had arrived by the swiftest possible post containing an urgent summons for him to go to Italy to meet her.

Grateful for a few snippets of information, Morse was nevertheless well aware that Thursday was still hiding from him the reason for their trip. What was so important to Thursday that he had to go to Italy in person? And why did he insist on taking Morse with him? 

Morse pried further but Thursday was determined to keep the full contents of the letter from him. In lieu of a proper explanation, Thursday instead talked of the mundanities of their trip, skirting around the real reason for going.

The airmail letter he’d received had been written in English, Thursday allowed, on behalf of Mrs. Armstrong’s mother by a retired British serviceman who’d settled out there, one Captain Douglas Richardson*. Richardson now ran a successful local hotel; this sympathetic fellow had offered Thursday free accommodation and every assistance during their visit.

Whatever business and employment the hotel provided in the village would be a much needed boost to the local economy which was still struggling to recover from the deprivations of the war years.

“They had it bad during the war, her people” Thursday explained. “They fought and fought. No let up. Then when the Germans found out they’d helped the partisans, well, there was no mercy shown.”

Thursday stared out into the darkening night, seeing only his reflection in the window. He and Morse were sharing a sleeping compartment on the train and, having had their dinner in the buffet car, were working their way through a bottle of scotch that Thursday had pulled from his case. As the night wore on and the booze took effect, Thursday had begun to open up a little about what had happened in the war to Luisa.

“I saw her. I saw them shoot her. Along with the rest as a reprisal for helping the resistance. They all fell, lined up against the wall of the church. No survivors. Or so I thought.” Thursday choked up, unable to go on.

Morse was shocked into silence. He waited until Thursday had wiped his eyes and taken another drink.

“But she got away. Luisa? Mrs. Armstrong I mean.”

“Well obviously, although I didn’t know she was still alive until I bumped into her last month,” sighed Thursday. “She had been wounded but not killed. Found the next day by the British troops coming up through Italy. Met Major Armstrong. Married him a year later when he came back for her. Good man, she said.”

Thursday smiled sadly at her fate. Morse saw the guilt written on his friend’s face.

“You couldn’t have done anything to help her!” offered Morse. “You didn’t know she was still alive.”

Thursday corrected him. “What if she’d written to me, told me? I’d have gone back. Gone back for her.” He shook his head with profound regret.

“But you were married. She knew that. Maybe she did it to leave you free to pick up your own life again. And she’d met this Major Armstrong.” Morse tried to soothe his friend’s conscience. “Besides it was you who told me the ‘what if’ game’s no good to any bugger!”

Thursday sighed and nodded slowly. The burden of guilt was never going to go away. He’d left behind his lover, believing her dead. He’d loved her with all the intensity of a young man who thought he might be killed at any moment. He’d never felt so alive before or since. He’d kept that memory wrapped deep in his heart all these years, only to find it wrenched out of him again when he’d come across Luisa in Oxford.

“And you can’t blame yourself for her death,” Morse added softly. “Died of wounds you said.”

Thursday took a deep breath.

“No! It was me tipped her over the edge,” he groaned, “turning up like that, reminding her of what she’d done.”

“No! Sir! That’s not true. She was lonely. After her husband died she couldn’t see the point of carrying on. In fact, after all she’d been through, she was glad of seeing you again. She told me so.”

Thursday looked directly into Morse’s eyes as they sat knee to knee on opposite sleeping bunks.

“You talked to her? When?” Thursday demanded, suddenly alert to the missing details in this sorry story.

Morse hesitated while he considered what to say. He’d interviewed Mrs. Armstrong following the deaths in Oxford of a number of married women linked to a slimy salesman. She’d reluctantly confessed that she had had a brief relationship with that wretch, although it was not relevant to the case so Morse kept that information to himself. Mrs. Armstrong had specifically begged Morse not to let Thursday know about her ill-judged affair with the salesman, ashamed in case she disgusted her old flame by her behaviour. She wanted Thursday to remember her as something good and pure in his life.

“I was investigating those murders linked to Burridges. In case she knew anything about that salesman.” Morse offered, carefully trying not to give away Luisa’s secrets.

Thursday stared at Morse for a while, also considering what he would admit to. He finally decided to come clean to Morse, knowing the details would not go any further. Thursday dropped his head into his hands and spoke in a low, pained whisper.

“She knew him alright. I saw he’d left his cigarettes at hers. Unusual brand. She didn’t smoke. She’d been seeing him.” Thursday made a disgusted snort in the back of his throat.

“You knew?” blurted out Morse.

Thursday nodded, head bowed low. 

Morse didn’t move, not even to put a hand on his shoulder.

“She didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want to disappoint you.”

But Thursday did know. And he was disappointed although he realised he had no right to judge the poor woman for the company she kept. In truth, it had turned Thursday’s stomach to know that such a lowlife had managed to make a tidy living from taking advantage of vulnerable women. 

Thursday felt he had let her down. If only he’d been able to protect her, to comfort her just a little, she might not have got involved with such an disgusting conman. But then again, if only he’d stayed away she might not have been so full of guilt, might not have contemplated doing what she did.

Thursday continued, “If I hadn’t gone to see her again. If I’d let her alone…”

“Don’t you see?” Morse argued. “She was lonely, terribly lonely after her husband died. It wasn’t you turning up that led her to take her own life. She was already depressed and wanted to end it all.”

Thursday shook his head and wiped his eyes again. He was grieving now, not just for his poor, lost love but for the bright, young soul he’d once been all those years ago amongst the horrors of the war.

“She wouldn’t want you to remember her like this. “Remember the girl you loved” she said in her note.” Morse tried to change the subject. “What was she like, back then?”

Unexpectedly this change of tack worked. Thursday straightened up and held out his glass for another whiskey. He cleared his throat and took another sip of scotch.

“Oh, she was a beauty,” he remembered wistfully, talking more to himself than Morse. “Wild and free and brave. Long black hair and those gorgeous eyes, well, you saw her for yourself. And always laughing. I remember her laughing. I remember the light sparkling on the water and the smell of the pines. And all above everything, I remember her.”

There was a reverential silence between them as they each paid their respects to her.

“That’s how she’d want you to remember her,” agreed Morse.

“I did her wrong,” Thursday added with heavy emphasis. “And I mean to put it right.”

But he gave no further hints to the reason for their journey and, after both had retired to bed, Morse lay awake on his bunk thinking through the last sad weeks of Luisa’s life. He went over and over what he knew without finding any more evidence that could have sent the two of them on this strange and urgent trip to Italy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Captain Douglas Richardson : I needed an English speaker in Italy and couldn’t resist having Fred Thursday (played by Roger Allam) meet Douglas (played by Roger Allam). If you haven’t met Douglas yet, do yourself a favour and listen to the BBC radio programme “Cabin Pressure”...it’s ‘Brilliant!’


	8. Remember The Girl You Loved

Fredo is running for his life, lungs burning, thighs aching, terrified they’ll catch up with him. The damn enemy had been tipped off and sprang a trap on the partisans. Fredo’s feet are flying down narrow trails, heavy boots pounding close behind him. He’s running blind in the pitch dark, praying that he can outrun them on paths he knows by heart. He runs and runs, heart bursting, throat raw, gulping mouthfuls of breath that barely sustain him. He cannot falter, must not stumble, determined to outrun them, not just to save his own life. His only thought is to get to her before they do, to warn her that her life is in danger, to save his beloved Luisa.

There are sounds in the darkness, rifle shots behind him, as he crashes through the undergrowth. Ahead he can see only black shadows, strange shapes lit up by the silver moonlight. He runs on and on, praying he won’t be too late, desperate to reach her. There’s a shot close by, a sudden burning pain in his gut and he stumbles, clutching at his side. His hand looks black in the strange light, blood covering his fingers, his own blood. As he falls to his knees his last thought is that he’s failed her.

With a grunt, Fred wakes from his nightmare to find himself lying in the bunk of the sleeper train on his way to Italy. It’s the same old nightmare he used to suffer after he’d seen Luisa shot against a wall. So real, so bloody, terrifyingly real. It tormented him for months, over and over, the same terror night after night until the war drowned it out with other horrors. And now the nightmare is back to tear at him. 

And as ever Luisa is just out of his reach.

Wiping his face with the back of his hand, sweat cooling at the base of his throat, Fred shivers with the cold. It’s hot in his bunk, he’s burning up but feels horribly clammy. He is dripping with perspiration, skin crawling as if he’s got a fever.

It’s a shock once again to have to remember that Luisa is dead. Somehow the nightmare has brought her close again, although he never sees her, he knows she’s there. If he could only run faster he’d reach her, catch hold of her and save her. He never can, though, and the ache of failing her over and over again is wearing him down.

Fred pulls the blanket close and rolls onto his side in the narrow bunk. As the terror of the nightmare fades, he resolves, as he does every time the nightmare runs its cold fingers through his guts, to lay Luisa to rest. 

“Remember the girl you loved,” she’d told him.

He sighs with regret and closes his eyes once more. She is never far away when the nightmare ends. He summons her to him, wanting to hold her once more, to be young and happy and in love.

As the sunrise lightens the sky above the high Italian pasture, Fredo runs towards the barn. He slows his pace having shaken off his pursuers, losing them on the lower slopes hours ago. He is unharmed, no bullet wound, feeling no pain and in no danger. Up here there is just the blue sky tinged with rosy dawn, the wide green slopes covered in lush grazing and meadow flowers. He is running at first, eager to reach Luisa, and then he seems to be flying, arms outstretched. He skims across the Italian landscape towards the only thing that matters. 

He is laughing, gleeful at the new day unfolding ahead of him, filled only with thoughts of his young lover. He is young again, feeling so strong and fit that nothing can harm him. He is bursting with life, giddy with love and is hurtling towards all that is good and pure and true, his love, Luisa.

The sun creeps above the high skyline to light up his world and Luisa is waiting for him, there in the sunshine, laughing to see him. She runs to meet him, calling out his name with delight and he catches her up, twirling her round in his arms.

“Fredo! Fredo! Fredo!”.

Her thick, dark hair is loose around her shoulders. He lifts a curl in his fingertips, rubs it gently with his thumb and marvels at how silky it is. She presses the softness of her cheek against his hand as she leans into his caress then throws back her head, offering him her throat to cover with his hot kisses. She’s laughing, her body shaking as she presses herself hard against him, arms wrapped round his waist.

He runs his lips across her cheek, then leans back to see her properly. From under her long lashes, she looks up at him, her beautiful eyes gleaming with mischief. She is so alive, so very real to him at this moment, that he groans with pleasure.

As Fred folds her in his arms he falls back to sleep with an exhausted sigh, praying she will stay with him throughout the night. He could not save her then, but there is another he can help, if only he is man enough to do it. With her help, he knows, he can face the difficult days ahead.


	9. Thursday’s Secret

They arrived in Italy after a long overnight train trip from England and were whisked from the train station to their destination hotel in the village where Thursday had spent time during the war. After a wash and brush up, Morse and Thursday were ushered into the hotel’s secluded garden for a private meeting with Thursday’s wartime friends.

Morse was still in the dark as to the reason for their trip but was not surprised that the first person to arrive was Mama Maria, Mrs. Armstrong’s ancient mother. After all, it was she who had written the letter to Thursday, summoning him urgently to Italy. Now they were here, Morse was about to find out why Mama Maria had brought them this far.

The tiny lady, dressed all in black, was steered across the terrace by a younger woman gripping her by the elbow, and she was accompanied by several friends and relatives.

Thursday recognised her immediately. She was older, more stooped and wrinkled, but still had such vitality and energy that he was taken back more than twenty years to their friendship during the war. He stood up respectfully and stepped forward, both hands stretched out to greet her and smiling broadly.

With a delighted cry she pushed herself away from her companion’s grasp and launched her faltering steps towards Thursday. Setting up a wail of anguish and relief at finally seeing him again, she staggered into his arms. He enfolded her in his warm embrace and laid his cheek on the top of her head. They clung together a long while, each one not quite believing they were truly together again. Murmuring together in Italian, their reunion moved everyone who saw them, even Morse who looked on with detached interest.

Morse had nowhere near anticipated the depth of feelings that Thursday’s arrival would have stirred up. It was clear that everyone in the small gathering was excited to welcome him back to their village. Cries of ‘Fredo’ went up as he gently released the old lady and greeted the others in turn. Fred was kissed and hugged by every single one of them, most of whom, Fred included, were wiping away tears of joy at his return. He exclaimed delightedly to those he recognised and greeted new friends in fluent Italian, very much part of their world again.

Morse looked on, forgotten in the rush of emotion and excluded by his lack of Italian.

Finally Fred turned back to Mama Maria and a hush fell on the small crowd of well wishers. He had to bend low to allow her to take his face in her bony hands. They gazed at one another, taking in the damage done over the years, searching for their younger selves. 

“Are you ready?” she asked at last.

“Yes,” he said simply. 

Morse was perplexed as Mama Maria turned to beckon another person to join them. From out of the shadows a young man, smiling but nervous, stepped forward to meet Fred.

Morse swung his gaze back to Thursday to gauge his reaction to this newcomer.

Fred straightened up from Mama Maria’s embrace. His mouth fell open in astonishment. He stared at the young man unblinkingly. Rooted to the spot, Fred stared and stared, unable to utter a word. He simply could not believe what he was seeing.

Hesitating, the young man held out his hand.

“Mr. Thursday!” he announced, speaking excellent English with a strong Italian accent. “Good to meet you at last!”

Fred’s jaw worked but no sound came out. He was shocked to his very soul.

Morse watched in confusion, not knowing the reason for Fred’s amazement, while his quick mind worried away at something he’d noticed but couldn’t place. The young man reminded him of someone but Morse could not for the life of him recall who. It came to him a split second later as Thursday snapped back into life.

Fred lurched forward to brush away the handshake he was offered. Instead he grabbed a handful of the young man’s jacket and dragged him into a sudden embrace. Wrapping his strong arms around the young man’s slender shoulders, Fred pulled him tightly against his chest and smothered him against his own broad frame. It seemed like he would crush the breath out of the youngster.

Laughing, the young man wriggled round for air and seeing his delighted face wrapped in Fred’s arms, Morse suddenly saw the resemblance that had been eluding him. Sam Thursday! That’s who he looked like. A little older, darker, skinnier perhaps and not so tall, but the eyes and the expression on his face when he laughed made him the spitting image of Sam.

Fred was crying now and laughing through his tears at the same time. He grasped the lad by the shoulders and pushed him away to look at him from arms’ length. He liked what he saw, that was clear. Fred brushed away his tears with the back of his hand then reached out to stroke the young Italian’s cheek.

“My son!” he announced. “My son!”

A cry went up from the onlookers as everyone crowded round to celebrate the long overdue reunion. There were whoops of joy and laughter, a rush to shake every hand and kiss every cheek, and the rest was chaos for several minutes.

Standing apart from the commotion, Morse at last understood. This young Italian was Thursday’s natural son, born and raised without his father’s knowledge. He was the reason that Fred had been in such a hurry to get to Italy, to meet his long, lost son. And by the look on both their faces, they were overjoyed finally to meet one another.

For this was Luisa’s child, Morse concluded, conceived in the war and kept secret from his father. His very existence had only recently been revealed in the exchange of letters following Luisa’s death. 

But there were so many questions still to be answered. Why had Luisa left the child with her mother to be brought up in Italy after she married and went to live in England? And why had she not told Fred that she’d had his son?

Morse was staggered. Why had Thursday kept such a secret from him? Why hadn’t he told him about his son? 

It was unbearable to feel so left out. He felt deeply wounded by Thursday not sharing this secret with him. Instead of celebrating, Morse spun on his heel and walked away.


	10. Morse Is Jealous

Morse sits at the table, stunned at the revelation that they have come all this way to find Thursday’s natural son. Bitterly he realises that Thursday had known about this young man before they set off to Italy. He’d dragged Morse along without even mentioning the reason for the trip. Morse is more upset that he’s been lied to by the man he considers his own surrogate father than the news of another son, an Italian lovechild, left over from a wartime romance. 

As he downs a glass of red wine, Morse shakes his head, incredulous at the deception that Thursday has practised upon him. 

He looks around at the delighted faces, crowding around Thursday to congratulate him on finding his long lost son. Everyone is happy for him. Everyone except Morse. Full of self pity, Morse looks away from Thursday’s smiles and searches for the reason why Thursday would not have discussed this trip with him before setting out. 

Perhaps Thursday was ashamed of the existence of a bastard son, ashamed of his love affair during the war, ashamed at abandoning both the child and his mother?

But how could that be true, Morse wondered? Thursday knew nothing of the child until recently, and as soon as he heard, presumably in the airmail letter, then he made all haste to come to Italy to find out the truth. And Thursday had always thought that Luisa was dead, killed in the war, lined up with the rest of the village and shot against a wall, an atrocity that Thursday had seen with his own eyes. Thursday hadn’t known that Luisa was still alive until they met again in Oxford and even then she’d not mentioned the child to him. Once he knew, Thursday had done all he could to make up for lost time. 

As usual, Thursday had striven to do the right thing, despite the shame and difficulty it might bring down on him and his own family.

So, no, Morse deduced, there was no sense of shame on Thursday’s part, only a strong desire to put things right.

Never one to judge other’s morals, more interested in their behaviour and motives, Morse is not troubled by Thursday’s infidelity though there is clear evidence he had done wrong. Morse himself has such strong sexual desires when attracted to the most inappropriate young women that he cannot fault another man for doing the same, once, under extraordinary circumstances.

There were no laws broken so on a professional level Morse has no interest in what happened to create this awkward situation. The deed was done so long ago that Morse simply cannot imagine Thursday as a young lover, younger in fact than Morse is now. On a personal level, Morse has almost forgotten the pressure that Thursday is under because he has allowed himself to sink into a self pity and envy.

Coldly, Morse thought through all other possible options why Thursday had lied to him about this trip. It’s not as if Morse could have interfered with the arrangements since Thursday had booked them all himself. Nor could he have let the secret slip since Morse didn’t speak Italian, hadn’t seen the letter from Mama Maria and hadn’t learned about the child himself. And anyway, Thursday knew from bitter experience that Morse was more than capable of keeping a secret, however painful that might be. Thursday could have trusted him with the truth, he was convinced of that, having trusted him in the past with more important family secrets than this.

Perhaps he had anticipated it would be dangerous to return to those wartime scenes and rake up the past. Thursday had packed his wartime revolver, Morse had seen it in his case. But Morse reasoned that Thursday didn’t need help to tackle any physical threats he might have encountered. No, Thursday was as brave as any man when faced with violence and smarter than most at avoiding it.

So what possible reason could Thursday have had for keeping Morse in the dark?

Morse was shaken from his study by Captain Douglas Richardson* waving a bottle of brandy at him. Leaning over the table to pour Morse a drink, he introduced himself, “Richardson. Morse isn’t it?”

When a curt nod was all he got in reply, Richardson raised his glass in a toast, “Fred Thursday!”

Morse grimaced, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to even bother to pretend to be happy for Thursday.

“You’re a lucky fellow,” Richardson challenged his silence. He’d been watching Morse sulking and had guessed the reason.

“How’s that?” sniped Morse.

Richardson gestured with the bottle at Thursday, as if that were explanation enough.

“You’ve earned the respect of a fine man.” Richardson clarified. “Trusted you to come with him on this trip, didn’t he?”

Morse stared sullenly at the Captain who coolly raised a questioning eyebrow.

“He never told me he was coming to find his son,” Morse started to protest.

“But you came anyway, didn’t you?” Richardson said provocatively. 

He gave Morse a shrewd look as Morse swung his head to glare at Thursday with fresh eyes. 

“Well now he’s found his real son, he doesn’t need me around anymore!” snapped Morse bitterly.

“No need to be jealous, is there? He’s got a big heart, room enough for both of you!” snorted Richardson.

“Jealous!” burst out Morse indignantly.

“Well, you needn’t be,” countered the other man, “anyone can see how fond of you he is. Treats you just like a son, doesn’t he?”

He let his words sink in as he turned his back on Morse to rejoin the celebrations.

Morse sank back into his chair and considered what Richardson had said. A cold wave began to wash over him, a feeling of shame that he was letting Thursday down. Richardson was right, of course. Morse belatedly realised that Thursday had not told him the truth about this trip to try to protect him, to save upsetting him, knowing that Morse would feel put out, displaced in his affections, jealous even. 

Morse sighed. Self awareness was not his strong suit. It took a blatant challenge from an outsider like Richardson to point out to Morse his own failings at times.

Morse gulped down the brandy. He squared his shoulders and stood up. Then putting on a brave face, he went to congratulate Thursday on finding his long lost son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Captain Douglas Richardson : I needed an English speaker in Italy and couldn’t resist having Fred Thursday (played by Roger Allam) meet Douglas (played by Roger Allam). If you haven’t met Douglas yet, do yourself a favour and listen to the BBC radio programme “Cabin Pressure”...it’s ‘Brilliant!’


	11. The Best And Wisest Of Men

Fred Thursday was the centre of attention with a small knot of people congratulating him on being reunited with his son, none more delighted than Fred himself. He was hugged and squeezed and patted on the back, and ducked down to accept kisses on the cheek, whilst holding out his arms wide as if he would embrace the lot of them. 

Over the tops of their heads, for he was taller than most, he caught sight of Morse hovering undecidedly on the edge of the group.

“Morse!” Fred called out, beckoning him forwards. “Morse!”

People stepped back to allow Morse’s lanky frame to push through towards Thursday. As soon as he was within range of Thursday’s long arms, he reached for Morse and pulled him close. Embarrassed, Morse stiffened in Thursday’s grasp, then gradually relaxed into the big man’s arms as Thursday held him in a long embrace.

“Oh lad, I’m so pleased you came,” sighed Thursday into the young man’s ear. “Wouldn’t have been the same without you.”

Morse, still struggling with Thursday’s deception, blurted out in a hurt voice, “But why did you ask me to come?”

Thursday was a little taken aback. He loosened his hold on Morse to peer into his face.

“What if it had all been a huge misunderstanding? What if I’d got it all arse about face?” Thursday asked gently. “I’d have needed you then to get to the truth of it.”

Slightly mollified, Morse still yearned to know why he hadn’t been told the full story in the first place.

“Why didn’t you tell me? About you having a son I mean.”

Thursday tipped his head and regarded Morse patiently. 

“Didn’t want you to feel you’d been pushed out, lad.” Thursday patted Morse on the cheek. “You know I’d never do that, don’t you son?”

So there it was. 

Thursday had been trying to protect Morse from feeling left out. Morse bowed his head, ashamed at having felt jealous. Being called “son” by the man he admired more then anyone in all the world gave Morse a warm, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Thursday wrapped his hand round the back of Morse’s neck and tipped his face up so he could look into Morse’s eyes which had filled with tears.

“What’s this?” Thursday chuckled, close to tears himself. “Don’t start me off!”

Morse swayed back on wobbly legs, and then shrugged as if it were nothing at all. Gently Thursday patted him on the shoulder and released his hold, letting Morse slip away to find a quiet corner.

Morse felt like an outsider, that was true, unable to speak the language, uncomfortable with the show of emotion around him, unwilling to relax and enjoy the celebration. But he had lost the feeling of jealousy, of being displaced in Thursday’s affections, reassured by Thursday himself. It was really all that Morse had ever wanted, his father’s approval. Thursday held that role now, a better, kinder man in every way than Morse’s own father could ever have been. And now Morse had not only Thursday’s approval but his love and affection too. He smiled to himself, secure for once in the knowledge that he was loved, truly and unconditionally, loved by a man he considered to be the best and wisest of men.


	12. A Credit To His Father

The next morning Thursday came looking for Morse.

“Morse!” he exclaimed. “Quick now, lad, come with me.”

“What is it, Sir?” asked Morse, following him indoors, alarmed by Thursday’s agitation. “Has something happened?”

“I’ve booked a phone call home. I want you to talk to Win after I’ve spoken to her,” he threw over his shoulder as they entered the lobby.

Morse held back while Thursday went through to the quiet library to take the international phone call. From outside the door Morse heard Thursday asking for his wife as if addressing the troops, in a loud, firm voice. Then his voice dropped until Morse could only catch the occasional word. Obviously they had a clear line to Oxford.

“Morse!” barked Thursday loudly after several minutes and Morse slipped into the room.

“Yes, love, he’s right here,” Thursday confirmed gently into the receiver. “I will, love. And you. Yes, love.”

There was a short wait while Thursday listened carefully to his wife’s voice, a fond smile on his face.  
“I’ll pass you over, love,” he added. “I’ll speak to you after you’ve had a word with Morse.”

Thursday held out the telephone to Morse who took it gingerly while Thursday stood by, waiting to take it back again.

“Hello? Mrs Thursday? It’s Morse,” he started.  
“Yes, dear, it’s Win, dear,” came the familiar voice in reply.  
“Errr, how are you?” asked Morse inanely. How would she be, the betrayed wife, the outraged mother, the distraught partner?

“I’m alright, love,” she insisted. “How are things with you? Fred says it’s all going well?”  
“Yes. Yes, it is,” Morse muttered, unsure what to say to the woman who had recently found out her husband had an illegitimate son.  
“Oh, that’s good, love,” rejoined Win smoothly. “And how’s Fred? How’s he taking it?”

He should have known that Mrs. Thursday would be worried for her husband’s peace of mind. After all this was all a huge shock to both of them.

Morse glanced over his shoulder and turned back to hunch over the receiver as if this would make the response more private.  
“He’s fine, taking it all in his stride.”  
“Be sure to keep an eye on him for me, won’t you dear?” begged Mrs. Thursday.  
“Of course!” huffed Morse. “I always do, don’t I?” he added playfully to lighten the tone.

“Fred says he’s nice, this young man?” she continued in a trembling voice that gave away her concern.  
“Yes. Yes, he is.”

There was a pause while Morse realised he was meant to expand on his opinion.   
“He’s smart and hard working, runs his own business.” Morse offered hesitantly. 

He was simultaneously thinking what to say that would reassure Mrs. Thursday and what would be truthful, mindful too that Thursday was standing just a few feet away listening to the conversation.

“He’s fun and kind and very much part of the family here.”  
“Oh, I am glad he’s got family around him,” she answered. “He must be finding all this very difficult too?”  
Morse realised that Mrs. Thursday was more concerned for her husband and his son at this moment than for herself. He straightened up and turned to look Thursday in the eye as he spoke.  
“He’s a fine young man, Mrs. Thursday. And a credit to his father.”

Thursday’s worried frown lifted as he heard Morse’s words and was replaced with a grateful look. There was a hitch at the other end of the phone as Mrs. Thursday caught her breath. Morse handed back the receiver to Thursday who leant in to say a fond farewell to his wife while Morse drifted out of the room.

Minutes later Thursday joined Morse for breakfast on the terrace.  
“That was kind, what you said on the phone,” offered Thursday as he took a seat. “Reassured my Win no end, you did.”

Morse smiled self-effacingly and shrugged.  
“No more than the truth,” he said.

Thursday watched him a moment longer until Morse looked up to catch his gaze. Thursday smiled thoughtfully.  
“You wanted to know why else I asked you to come?”  
“Mmmm,” rejoined Morse, confused as he thought he’d already had his answer.  
“Well, lad, Win insisted. To keep an eye on me, she said.”  
“Oh!”

Morse put down his cup of coffee.  
“So she already knew about…you’d already told her?”  
“Oh course I had!” scoffed Thursday in mock indignation. “You don’t think I’d have come all this way without getting her blessing on it first?”  
“That must have been difficult….to tell her…..” Morse tailed off.

Thursday hesitated, arranging his thoughts before speaking.  
“Yes it was,” he said seriously. “She already knew about the war time thing years ago. No secrets between us back then. Told her at the time and thank God she forgave me.”

Morse could not imagine what strength it had taken for Mrs. Thursday to forgive her husband having an affair with a girl he’d met in Italy, for they had not been long married at that point.  
“And then meeting Luisa, Mrs. Armstrong, again in Oxford. Well, that threw me. I kept quiet at first. But when she died, I came clean to Win and we put it behind us.” Thursday shook his head sadly.

Poor Win, thought Morse, to have that old sorrow brought up all over again.

“And then when I found out about the child,” Thursday continued mournfully, “well, you can imagine.”

Morse couldn’t. He simply could not think how Mrs. Thursday could have dealt with yet another blow to their marriage. He shook his head and looked questioningly at his friend.

Thursday set about trying to explain. 

“At first, I was all for keeping things at a distance. You know, write some letters, send some money, that sort of thing. But when I talked it over with Win, well she couldn’t let it lie. Kept worrying about the child, left behind by both parents. Insisted I do right by him. So here I am.”

“I can’t understand why his mother left him behind,” Morse said hesitantly, not wanting to spoil the happy moment.

Thursday’s mood sobered immediately. Grimly he tried to justify why Luisa had not taken their son to England with her. According to Mama Maria, when Luisa had the chance of a fresh start in England by marrying Major Armstrong, her mother had persuaded her to leave the baby boy behind to be raised in Italy. And she had been too ashamed of her part during the war in the betrayal of the partisans to ever contact Thursday again, to tell him of his child.

“You’re glad that you came though, aren’t you?” Morse probed, raising a tired smile from Thursday who nodded.

“Very!” he chuckled. “He’s a fine young man. A real credit to me as you say. I’ll try to do right by him. And he seems happy enough to accept me as his father.”

Morse smiled at his friend’s humility. Who wouldn’t want a decent man like Fred Thursday as their father?

“He’s lucky to have you,” Morse added. 

Fred huffed, pleased at the comment.

“We’ll get the papers signed. Make it all legal and proper in case anyone questions that he’s mine.”

“There can’t be any doubt he’s your son!” exclaimed Morse. “He’s the spit of your Sam!”

Fred raised his eyebrows in surprise, then frowned.

“Oh, I can see the family resemblance. But not to our Sam,” he pondered.

Puzzled, Morse prompted him, “Who, then?”

“Why, me, Morse!” laughed Fred. “It’s like looking at myself in the mirror, when I was younger. No mistaking whose son he is,” he added proudly.

Morse smiled, seeing in his mind’s eye for a second, a younger, happier Fred Thursday, laughing and carefree in the Italian sunshine. 

“I want to be a good father to him, now I’ve found him.” Fred added.

“You will be, I’m sure,” offered Morse, then added shyly, “ You’ve been the best of fathers to me.”

Morse realised this journey together had strengthened his admiration for Thursday, seeing his determination to face his responsibilities no matter how painful. He was grateful Thursday had chosen him for this trip.

“Thankyou, Morse, it’s meant the world to me having you here.”

Thursday reached across and patted Morse’s forearm.

Morse smiled back sweetly, relieved that all was well in Thursday’s world. His wife had been a tower of strength throughout this unfolding drama and a real moral example for them all to follow, putting the child before any selfish considerations. His Italian son was a delight and was thrilled to be with his father after so many years of separation. And Thursday himself had discovered he loved that young man fiercely and was proud to call him his son. 

And not least, Thursday had deepening his relationship with the young man he fondly considered to be his son in all but name, his protégé and favourite, Endeavour Morse.

**Author's Note:**

> Fred Thursday is still reeling from the death of his wartime sweetheart, Luisa Armstrong. When he uncovers her further awful secret he is determined to put things right after all these years. Morse is upset that his mentor keeps the secret from him and becomes jealous.
> 
> Follow on from Season 2 “Sway”


End file.
